


Don't Touch the Butterfly's Wings

by fresne



Category: August: Osage County (2013)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Incest, Yuletide 2014, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-02 23:50:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2830523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fresne/pseuds/fresne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Little Charles didn't remember when he became Little Charles. He didn't remember his first toddling steps towards his Dad. He didn't remember the first time his Mom sat him down in front of a TV so she could have a God Damned moment to herself. He liked Sesame Street. Everyone was nice. </p><p>Little Charles knew the exact moment he fell in love with Ivy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Touch the Butterfly's Wings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lunch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunch/gifts).



Little Charles didn't remember when he became Little Charles. He didn't remember his first toddling steps towards his Dad. He didn't remember the first time his Mom sat him down in front of a TV so she could have a God Damned moment to herself. He liked Sesame Street. Everyone was nice. 

Little Charles knew the exact moment he fell in love with Ivy.

He was six. Small for his age. His Mom kept saying that. "Little Charles is small for his age. It's because he came early. You'll need to catch up, Little Charles." He tried his best to stand as tall as he could when Dad had him stand in the kitchen next to the measuring spot, but it never did any good. 

They'd been visiting Uncle Beverly and Aunt Violet like they always did. 

Little Charles had been feeling sick since breakfast, but he knew better than to say anything. The entire car ride out there, he squeezed his eyes shut. He held onto his rumbly belly.

When they got there, Uncle Beverly asked him how he was doing. He said, "Fine, Uncle Beverly. How are you?" Because Mom said he should ask. Uncle Beverly asked if he wanted to see his office, which didn't sound very interesting, but his Mom said, "You go on, Little Charles."

Dad laughed. "The look on his face." He shook his head. "Let him go play. The boy doesn't want to go look at a bunch of musty old books," but Mom got that look so Little Charles went to go look at the office.

Uncle Beverly had a new chair. His cousin, Karen, was spinning around in it. Just spinning around. Little Charles wanted and he didn't want to get in that chair, and take a spin. Karen said, "Now, don't cry, because only babies cry." He wasn't a baby. He got in the chair. She gave him a spin. 

He tried to say, "I don't feel good," but it was too late. He threw up all over the carpet and all over the desk and all over the chair.

Karen yelled, "Dad! Little Charles' is throwing up," and he felt bad on top of bad. Just a pile of bad, with upchuck burning in his mouth and sticking to the front of his sweater.

His Mom laid into him right away. "Little Charles. Look what you did! All over your Uncle's new chair. You march yourself into the cupboard closet and get a rag and clean that up."

Uncle Beverley stood as far away from him as he could with his arms crossed, because of what Little Charles had done. He sighed, like someone who was thinking really smart thoughts, but wasn't going to share. He left the room.

Aunt Violet was having a lie down, which was good. Little Charles dreaded to think what she'd say.

Mom yelled at him a bit more. "Well, not getting any younger here. Get to it."

He went to the cupboard and stared at the wall of linens. He was certain, just certain, that whichever one he picked would be the wrong one.

That's when Ivy came out of her room. She squeezed his hand even though he smelled awful. She was thirteen and practically an adult. He looked up at her. "I don't know which one to use." 

She his hand again. "Let's get you cleaned up first." She helped him up onto the counter in the bathroom. She gave him a glass of water to drink. She pulled off his sweater and jeans. She gave him one of her own shirts to wear. It had a big plastic butterfly on it. It was long enough that it came down to his ankles.

She gave him a wash cloth while she put his clothes in the wash. Then she helped him clean up Uncle Beverly's office. Mom came by once. The cubes of ice in her glass rattled around. She said, "Ivy, Little Charles made this mess. He's got to be the one to clean it up. How else is he going to learn?"

Ivy ducked her head and smiled at the carpet. He was small, so he could see her smile just fine. "It's no bother. Everyone feels sick sometimes." She nudged a dark spot on the carpet with the toe of her tennis shoe. Mom left them to it.

Karen came by once and laughed and laughed and laughed. She ran off down the stairs and come back with the Polaroid. She took a picture of him in Ivy's shirt. He got a lot of shit over the years because of that shirt, but he didn't take any of it. Karen or Mom or Aunt Violet would laugh over that picture and he'd put his hand to his chest where the slick plastic butterfly had been, and feel his heart beating underneath.

When they went over to Aunt and Uncles, he always made a beeline for Ivy. After that, it got to be a joke that he was Ivy's shadow. 

Aunt Violet would stand in the sweltering heat of the kitchen holding a cigarette. "Just like two odd peas in an odd pod," in answer to his question where Ivy was.

Mom would fan herself and say, "Well, they are first cousins. But you don't want to find Karen. She's closer to your age." 

He'd shake his head no. 

After a while, he learned not ask.

Ivy liked to play in the old fort behind the house. She liked to play in the dirt and climb in the trees. She didn't wear dresses like Karen or Barbara. She always wore jeans or slacks. 

He'd find odd rocks in the dirt and pile them up by the fort. Ivy'd say, "What are doing, Little Charles?" He'd sing a little song that he'd make up about the rock people, or the rock fort, or something. She never laughed. She smiled and made things up with him. Sometimes, she read to him from one of the books she was reading. She wasn't supposed to be reading them, but that their secret in the fort. She'd read him bits of _Are You There God, It's Me Margaret_ , _Flowers in the Attic_ , or _Lace_.

Once she explained it to him, he never was able to look at a goldfish the same way.

They both liked it in the fort. It was their little world, until they were called in for supper. 

When he got older, Uncle Beverly would ask him over supper how school was going. Uncle Beverly would say, "What's your favourite class, Little Charles?" 

Mom would cut in before Little Charles could say anything. "Why do you always ask that when the answer is always the same? Little Charles, doesn't have a favourite class. He can barely read and write. All he does is come home and watch TV all the time."

Dad would put his hand on Little Charles shoulder and say, "Must mean he takes after me," which he hoped was true. But he could tell from the expression on Uncle Beverly's face that he was disappointed in Little Charles for not having a favourite class.

It was true though. He hated school. 

He'd take a spelling test and no matter how hard Little Charles stared at the words before the test, the letters would just get all jumped up his head. He was lucky to get maybe two out of twenty right. No matter how many times Mom yelled at him to get those letters in, they just wouldn't stay. Math was just as bad. He just couldn't seem to keep the numbers lined up. He wasn't supposed to use his hand to help him count, but when he didn't, he got lost. 

When his Mom and Dad went to talk to the teacher in First Grade, his Mom said, "What can you expect from a boy who can't even tell his right from his left? Even monkeys know their right from their left."

Dad said, "Little Charles just needs a little extra help. Ms. Pritchard, is there any way you could help him out a bit more in the classroom."

Ms. Pritchard said, "That's what I've asked you here to discuss. Little Charles has very pronounced dyslexia." She slid some papers across her desk. "There are some exercises that you can do to help him."

Mom stood up and her chair groaned its way across the floor. "There's nothing I need to be doing. Little Charles is just lazy. About as lazy as you are. You’re his teacher. Do your job."

Ms. Pritchard took a deep breath and said, "And you are his parents." It got a little heated after that.

They didn't hear the end of that parent teacher conference all the way to her explaining how things were in the Principal's office. Ms. Pritchard went to work somewhere else. Little Charles was in the class with the kids with problems. He had problems, but a lot of those kids were mean. Mostly he did his best to be quiet in the back of the room and the teacher didn't bother him. 

Things got a little better. Dad had taken the papers from Ms. Pritchard. He found other ways to help Little Charles. They'd go down to the Rec room in the basement, turn on the TV down there to play whatever game was going, which meant Mom wouldn't come down, and run through exercises. Many of them were like games. They helped some. 

Anyway, it wasn't so bad. He figured out that if he didn't do well on a spelling test, or math, whichever was right before PE, he got to stay inside the classroom working on it. 

No one could shove him to the ground in the classroom writing letters over and over. They didn't tell him he was supposed to catch the ball, which always hit him in the face or once in the eye and he had to go to the emergency. No one to tell him to run faster in Red Rover Red Rover. Whenever he did, he always knocked his breath right out of him, then the other kids called him a pussy or gay for crying. 

When he had to do sports, he'd play Out-Out field for Baseball. Past the regular outfield and out among the tiny daisies that would grow in the grass over by the wind break trees at the edge of school.

Sometimes he'd pick little bunches of them before they went out to Aunt and Uncles'. He'd give them to Ivy. They were always a little wilted by the time they got there, but she'd put them in a cup of water in the fort. Sometimes they were a vegetable cult and worshiped them. Sometimes they were an offering to dread Nefertiti, which was Karen's Barbie head for practicing makeup that Ivy had liberated from the trash.

Little Charles was in charge of the chants. 

He did okay in his piano lessons. Every year, he got an award.

His teacher, Miss Myna, said, "You've got an ear for notes, but you need to learn to read your sheet music." He never could understand why. It was so much easier to just play the notes that Miss Myna played for him, and then noddle them around until he liked them.

His lessons stopped in Fifth grade, when he said he wanted to be a musician. Mom put a stop to them right then. "Listen to Liberace there. You play like you're still five years old. You know that award Miss Myna gives you every year is a pity award. It doesn't mean you're any good."

Dad said, "I think his playing is good."

Mom said, "You think it's cute when he plays _Three Blind Mice_ , that's not the same as good." His lessons stopped after that. But he kept playing. Making up little songs. 

As he got older, and he started waking up at night dreaming about Ivy, he knew it wasn't right. But he couldn't stop how he felt in his sleep, or when he was awake. He knew how to do his own laundry to clean up the results. Sometimes, he turned his socks blue or his underwear pink, but his sheets were clean.

He and Ivy marched to their own drum, which felt like it was the beat of his heart.

But one day in July, when he was twelve, he headed straight out to the fort. Ivy wasn't there with a stack of her books for college. 

She was inside with the other adults and her boyfriend.

Barry very smart, which made sense. Ivy was smart. She should date a smart person. Barry drove an electric car and had bright orange hair under a scarf and could do math in his head and talked about heuristic algorithms when Little Charles asked him to pass the rolls. 

Aunt Violet stabbed the air with the cigarette attached to her hand and said, "Barry, what is that thing on your head. Is it preventing you from passing the rolls? Is that what it is?"

Little Charles tried to say he didn't need the rolls, but things got out of hand by then.

He tried to like Barry. Ivy deserved to have someone love her. She deserved the best possible person in the world to love and watch out for her. He just had a hard time imaging that person was Barry.

Ivy and Barry dated all through college at TU and for five years after that. But when Barry moved to California, Ivy didn't go. Little Charles heard Aunt Violet go on about how at least one of her daughters had the sense to stay home and help take care of things. 

Ivy had sawed at the leathery top of her casserole. "I like my job at the Library."

"Oh, the job that Beverly got you. That job. You like that job." Aunt Violet tapped a fall of ash into the tray in front of her. 

"Yes," Ivy calmly put a bite of casserole in her mouth and chewed. "I like that job."

Little Charles wrote her a little song about the library.

She laughed because it was silly, and bumped her shoulder against his. It felt good to hear her laugh.

He lived for when he'd go visiting. Until she moved out to her own place, but she didn't go far. He helped her move. Holding boxes and boxes of the things that were important to her in his arms. Squeezing them tight as possible so none of them would drop. He tripped once, but Ivy assured him they were just clothes and could take falling on the ground.

He never did move out. Oh, he tried. His Mom said, "Little Charles you don't have the sense to come in out of the rain. What makes you think you could survive out in the world? You're like a plant with no roots and about as intelligent." 

So he stayed home.

He couldn't even drive. Oh, he tried. He'd get all flustered with Mom sitting next to him telling him what he was doing wrong and the engine would be grinding when he changed gears and then there was the time he killed the car. Turned out it was bad gas. Dad said, "It's because I went to that cheap place on the corner, and not a real gas station. It's not your fault. It's on me. Stop being so hard on yourself." 

It was hard to want to drive. 

He could walk or take the bus to work anyway.

On the night of prom, he and Ivy spent the night folding a thousand paper cranes in her apartment. They set them on fire at midnight and watched the tiny pieces of paper ash float on the wind.

He graduated, but only just.

He got jobs in stores, but he never seemed able to keep them. He couldn't keep the numbers in his head, so they couldn't let him on register. He'd stock shelves wrong. He'd try to go to work on time. He'd promise himself to set his alarm. He'd lie in bed and just dread the day. He'd show up later and later until they fired him. His Mom would say, "Little Charles, you're not even smart enough to work at a gas station."

Dad would say "Give the boy a break." Dad was such an easy going man. Little Charles took after Dad. That wasn't all that bad a thing.

Eventually, he found and kept a job at a shoe store. He didn't love shoes, but he was taller than the other clerks and that was something. He was good with the children. They liked his songs while he was finding them shoes. It was almost a surprise when he realized he'd been working there for over a year.

His Mom sniffed. "Your Manager is ten years younger than you." 

He didn't correct her that Mr. Fines was only six years younger. It wasn't worth it.

None of that mattered when he went to visit Ivy. He'd go over to her apartment on Wednesday afternoons. It was easy. That was Mom's bridge night, and he was supposed to make himself scarce. 

He'd go over to Ivy's and clean up a bit. He started that winter she was working a triple load because three of the other Librarians at TU were out on Maternity leave. He never stopped. She said, "Little Charles, I can clean my own house."

He said, "I don't mind." He didn't. He didn't go into her bedroom. That would be wrong. He cleaned the bathroom and dusted in the living room and gave the kitchen a scrub. Once he scrubbed so hard, he accidentally removed the words on the burners, but Ivy didn't yell at him. She pulled out a paint kit and they put in new words to say what things did. They made things up. 

After he cleaned, he'd make Ivy spaghetti dinner. That was something he couldn't mess up. Ivy always cleaned her plate. He'd play piano for her on a little electric keyboard. Sometimes she'd read to him. They'd watch TV together.

He loved that.

At home, he had to have a trick when watching TV. He'd pick a channel and then change it to what he really wanted to watch. Then if he heard Mom coming down the stars, he could change it. Hearing her talk about him watching Wife Swapping shows was a lot better than hearing her laugh over him watching shows on science or history. It's just they made more sense when he could hear it and it wasn't just words on a page.

Ivy liked to watch the same things he did. They'd sit together on her couch watching shows on the science of Fear or Love or how the body worked. They watched shows about how the history of the world. They watched travel shows about all the places they never went.

He loved Wednesdays.

It was a Wednesday when she told him. 

He put the water on boil as soon as he heard the door, but she didn't come into the kitchen. She was sitting at the table with her head in her hands. He put his hand on her shoulder, because shoulders were safe. Shoulders were for squeezing and slapping. She looked up at him, red eyed. She tried to say something over and over. He kept his hand on her shoulder and waited. She said, "I have cervical cancer."

He felt those words slice right to his middle. Slice right into the meat of his heart. They'd watched a program on the heart last Wednesday and it had four chambers. He felt all four chambers shudder. He felt his body release adrenaline and cortisol like that program said. But this wasn't about his fear. But this wasn't about him. He rubbed her shoulder and said, "What can I do? Whatever you need, I'll do it." 

She just shook her head. Fat tears rolled down her face. She wiped at them. "I have cancer and when they told me, all I could think is I don't want anyone to know." She looked up at him. "You can't tell anyone. This is just one more way Mom's going to tell me I'm damaged goods. That I'm a failure." 

He rubbed her back and said, "Whatever you need. I'll do my best to help." He didn't say that his best wasn't very good and was likely not to be good enough, because that would have been about him. He said, "You're going to get through this. You know why?"

She shook her head. 

He sat down next to her and held her hand tight. "Because you're Ivy, and Ivy is one of the toughest plant that’s out there. It may not have flowers, but you try and tear it up. It just grows right back. You remember how Mom was cursing that ivy on the fence. She yanked it out and put poison all over, but you know what's growing on the fence?" 

She hiccupped, which was like laughing. "Ivy." 

That was when he heard the pot of water in the kitchen bubble over the sides of the pot. It hissed as it hit the open flames. He cursed and ran to go pull it off. He sang her a song about Ivy that came back the very next day after dinner.

She shoved his shoulder and called him a plagiarist, but she was smiling.

After that, he came over a lot more than on Wednesdays. He went with her to every Doctor's appointment. He came over after the surgery. He held her when she cried. She said, "I don't know why I'm crying. I'm forty-three. I never was going to have children anyway."

He didn't know what to say. So he sang her a song about her smile on a Wednesday afternoon and how it made the world a little brighter. He sang her a song about green ivy on the fence. He sang her songs when he helped her do her chemo shots. He sang her songs when he held her through the nausea that followed.

When Aunt Violet called for one of her reasons, he came too. He sat in that kitchen and smiled brightly at his Aunt and Uncle and said, "I've been wanting a visit." It was horrible. 

Uncle Beverly would talk awkwardly about things Little Charles didn't understand. Aunt Violet was horrible in his direction. But while that was happening, they didn't seem to notice how slow Ivy was moving. 

Once when, Ivy was driving them away, she said, "I feel like I'm a Roman throwing a Christian in the Coliseum to be eaten by lions." It was Rome week on the History channel. 

He squeezed her shoulder. "I told you, I'll do whatever you need and I meant it."

She sighed and put one hand over his. She was touching him while he was touching her. "Charles, you're my hero." When she said it like that, he felt it in all four chambers of his heart.

He missed work. He missed a lot of work. Mr. Fines called him into his office and told him that he needed more from Little Charles. 

Little Charles thought about that and quit. There was no telling how long Ivy would need his help. He didn't tell his Mom. She found out fast enough when she called the store to check up on him. But as long as she filled in the blanks on her own, none of it mattered.

Long as she thought he was downstairs in the den watching TV all day, and didn't put too much thought to when he just turned it on and left.

It was wonderful when Ivy got the results that there was no more cancer in her body. 

He didn't stop coming so often. Still, it was more than a little surprise one day when Ivy turned off the TV and said, "Charles, I've got something to tell you."

His heart squeezed, because it couldn't be the cancer. It couldn't be. They'd cut it out and said she was free of it. There couldn't be more. She deserved so much better than more. 

She said, "Oh, no, no, no. It's nothing like that." She bit her lower lip and breathed out. She said, "I love you."

Which was… she couldn't mean what he thought she meant. "I… love you too." It felt odd saying it. Such a large truth hurting in his throat and weighing down his heart.

"No, I mean, you're my hero and I adore you." She blinked and pressed a sweet soft kiss to his lips. It felt like a butterfly's wings must feel. 

He kissed her back, because what else was there. He kissed her. He could have kissed her all night, but he had to be back at the house. He swallowed his fear deep down. "Should I say something to Mom and Dad?"

"No!" She pressed another kiss to his lips. "Not yet. Let's keep this just for us." He understood that. The moment they said anything, the world would try to ruin it. Still, he was bursting with the desire to sing on the street and dance in the rain and yell that Ivy loved him. She adored him. He was her hero. 

He wasn't even sure it was real when he woke up the next morning. He dropped by the library at TU, where Ivy was on light duty. She smiled to see him and took him back into the stacks where they spent a thrilling fifteen minutes kissing.

When he went home, he sat in front of the TV in a sort of daze. He should look for another job, but all he could think about was that kiss. All he could think about was seeing her the next day.

They sat together almost awkwardly on the sofa, holding hands, not really watching what they were watching. They turned to each other and kissed. His hands trembling at the idea of sliding farther down from her shoulders, but she seemed to like it. He wanted her to like every part of anything he did. He was couldn't help but be certain that wasn't going to last. He said, "I've never… I mean… I… what if I…"

She smiled her familiar smile. "Charles, I've known you your whole life. I know." She unbuttoned her shirt and peeled off her jeans. She said, "Come on," and pulled him into her bedroom, where he never went. He fumbled at his clothes. Making a mess of it. His hands were shaking. But she didn't laugh at him, not Ivy. She helped him. It was over too quick. He tried to apologize, but she told him there was a way he could make it up to her, so he did. 

In a way, making it up to her was the best part, because it was all about seeing her smile and the glow that came after.

He wanted to tell everyone they were together. He wanted to sing it. But Ivy wasn't ready. 

Her Mom was diagnosed with cancer. When she got the word, Ivy just sat there. She hardly ate her spaghetti. They watched a program on the science of the brain. She threaded her arm through his. She rested her head against his shoulder. She shook from time to time, but she wasn't crying. Finally, she laughed. "I just realized that the responsibility for taking care of our parents is mine, and mine alone." She pulled away, "But only if I stay." She kissed him. 

She applied for a job at the library at NYU. She had a friend who put in a good word for her. She got an apartment agent, who found them a tiny place out in Brooklyn. Little Charles could find a job once they got there. She kissed his nose. "The best part is, you won't even need a car. Most people there never drive."

He brushed the tips of his fingers along her arm. He was happy to be going wherever she'd be.

Course, they were all set to go and Uncle Beverly disappeared. Ivy told him to keep packing. So he did. She told him what to get rid of and what to pack. He took things out to the curb with the sign "Free" on it. He boxed up the rest. Ivy drove back and forth to Aunt and Uncle's place.

Uncle Beverly was found dead, but Ivy said, "No, keep packing." He loaded the van she'd rented the day before the funeral. 

He planned to set his alarm. He did. But when he woke up on the air mattress that was all that was left of her furniture, there were the numbers blinking.

Little Charles missed the funeral. The worst day of Ivy's life and he wasn't there for her. He'd wanted to be there for her. To be her hero.

On the bus, he wrote her a song, because they were going to New York. Because they were going away the next day. Because he could barely hold it all inside his heart.

Even missing the funeral, it was horrible. All of it was just horrible. The whole ride back in the car, there had been this wet blanket of silence. Little Charles wondered if with Dad telling her to say something nice, Mom really didn't have anything to say.

He crept out of the house before his Mom and Dad woke up. He unfolded his note and left it on his bed. Then thinking better of it, he put it in the front of the TV in the basement rec room. 

He rolled the suitcase Ivy had gotten him down the road. It bumped and banged against his legs. He wanted to pick it up and just run. He'd probably trip. He caught the first bus that ran across town to Ivy's apartment and opened the door with his key for the last time. 

She'd deflated the air mattress and was sitting on the floor looking at the empty room. "Are you ready?"

She nodded, white faced and tired looking. "Yeah, I'm ready."

They hooked her car up to the van. He wished he knew how to drive so he could drive it for her. He was glad he couldn't, because this way he could sit in the van with her.

They set off down the long straight highway. Something was wrong. 

Ivy kept looking at him. 

They were the sort of looks he'd gotten all his life. He shrank in his seat. Cold dread ate up his toes. He tried to think of what he'd done or hadn't done. He'd missed Uncle Beverly's funeral. He didn't know how to drive. She'd have to drive the whole way. She hadn't wanted to make love for the last couple of weeks. He'd just thought it was because of her Mom. What if it was him? What if she'd realized that she'd attached herself to a goddamned clumsy goofball, who couldn't drive, could barely read, who sat on a couch all day just watching TV doing nothing. 

"Oh, no, Charles, no." Ivy's hand wrapped around Little Charles' knee. He realized he was shivering like he had a bad flu. "Remember, it's not like that between us." She rubbed her thumb over his knee. "I'm just… I just… I love you so much. But there's something I need to tell you. I thought I could just drive off, but… just until the next rest stop, okay."

He nodded not know what he was nodding for or agreeing to. He held onto her hand for the next fifty miles. Not wanting to let go. Wishing the next rest stop were farther away. Whatever she was going to tell him was bad. He knew it with the instinct of a lifetime of bad.

She pulled into a nearly deserted rest stop and carefully pulled into a truck space. They sat there in the van for a long time. She gave his hand another squeeze. She let go. She said, "You remember that program we were watching on Ancient Egypt a few weeks ago." He wasn't sure where she was going with that, but he nodded. "How the pharaoh and his wife were brother and sister, and that other program, the one on Hawaiians marrying their cousins or, that King from the 300, he was married to his niece."

His head was swimming a few feet below the surface at this flood. "Is it because we're first cousins. I thought that you didn't care… I don't, I…" He leaned across the bench seat and pressed a brief kiss to the tip of her nose. "Is that it?"

She giggled nervously. "No. Yes. No. It's… God, I don't even know how to say this. My Dad, he, and your Mom. They. We're," one hand pressed against her heart. Tears rolled down her cheeks, and her voice was the faintest whisper, "brother and sister. Half. Half just…" She shook her head. "I don't know what to do."

Of all the things she could have said, the idea of Mom and Uncle Beverly… that Dad wasn't his Dad. That he wasn't really Little Charles. He wanted to shut down. He wanted to click on a TV and have it fill him with something other than this. He said, "Keep driving. You can decide later. Just keep driving for now." 

"Yeah. Okay. Yeah." She turned on the engine. She turned it off again. "Maybe we should go to the bathroom. While we're here. I can just hear Mom telling me that there won't be another stop for a hundred miles."

He didn't really want to leave the van, but he could hear his Mom too going on about not stopping. He spent a long time in the bathroom washing his hands. Staring at the shiny piece of metal they used for a mirror trying to see Uncle Beverly in his face. He couldn't see it. He couldn't really see his Mom either.

He went back to the van. Ivy was waiting. 

She drove for hours. Not talking. 

The same thoughts running round in his head like dogs fighting for a bone. That Dad, Charlie, who had sat with him when he was sick and helped with school, that he somehow wasn't even his Dad. That Uncle Beverly with his books and poetry, and tinkling glass full of whiskey was, and because of that, Little Charles was going to lose Ivy and his Dad wasn't his Dad and… no. Uncle Beverly didn't get to be his Dad. He didn't. He was dead. Except, Ivy wasn't just his cousin, she was, and they'd already made love and… thoughts like dogs with a bone. Round and round.

Hours past sunset, they pulled into one of those little wide spots on the road towns. A couple of motels and a few gas stations. They got some food at the Dairy Queen. They checked into a Motel.

Little Charles pulled his suitcase behind him. It bumped into his legs. He followed Ivy into the room and stood awkwardly next to one of the double beds. Ivy put her suitcase next to the other bed. She looked at him miserably. He thought to himself, "Her Father just died. Our Father." 

He picked up the remote. He sat on the edge of his bed and turned on the TV. He blinked at the screen. He said, "Is that…"

Ivy giggled. "Yeah…" She picked up the white bag full of their food and sat next to him. She handed him his burger. They watched the new _Flowers in the Attic_ movie. She said, "This is terrible."

"Yeah," he agreed. He dipped a fry in his milk shake and offered it to her. She took it. She'd always liked sweet and salty. They kept watching. When the credits rolled, their food was long since eaten, but she was still next to him. 

She nudged his foot with hers. "I'll go brush my teeth." She came back out wearing a long sleeping shirt. He'd changed into his pj's while she was in there. "Maybe…" she said.

"Maybe…" he said.

"Just to sleep." She pulled back the covers on the far side of the bed.

"Just to sleep." He agreed. He lay on his back. She lay on hers. She slid her hand under his. He fell asleep like that. 

He woke up with his face pressed into her hair. He pulled her closer. Little spoon to his big. He froze. He should move away. He wanted to hold on a moment longer. He hardly knew what to do.

She sighed. "We should get going." She slid out of bed and padded into the bathroom. The sound of the shower started. He'd dreamed of waking up on this very morning and holding her. He'd dreamed of joining her in the shower. He'd dreamed of all the things he couldn't do up until now.

He turned on the TV and watched a cartoon about Mutant Biker Mice from Mars until she came out looking pink cheeked. He opened his mouth to tell her that he adored her. He wasn't sure if he was allowed to say that anymore. He didn't say anything.

His shower was cold. He stubbed his toe. 

They got out on the road early though. He found himself humming as the wide flat gave way to scattered trees. He almost stopped when he realized it was the theme music to Flowers, but Ivy was smiling at him. So, he made up words to go with it. Silly words that rambled on as the yellow lined miles sped by.

They got a Queen bed that night. They turned on the TV. They ate their meal. They got under the covers next to each other. Her leg brushed against his. Her toes grazing the skin of his ankle. She leaned up against him and he wrapped his arm around her while they watched bats using short and long bursts of sonar to find their way in the dark. 

They clicked off the lights and kept watching flickering images. They watched a show on wolves in the artic. They slid down on the bed and listened to something on butterflies while exploring each other's faces with their fingers. 

They fell asleep next to each other breathing each other's air.

In the morning, he smiled into her face, which was the best thing to see first thing in the day. "Morning." 

"Morning." She slid a foot between his legs. He kissed her, because he had to. There wasn't enough air in the room rattling cold from the air conditioner. Tiny kisses, light as the flick of a butterflies wings, and full of hope. She gave him back kiss for kiss. Growing more and more urgent with the exchange. He brushed his fingers in all the ways she liked and tried to put every bit of himself into convincing her not to make him go. Course, it wasn't possible to be all about the other person even when making love. Still when he gasped deep inside her, he didn't have the wits left to tell her he adored her. She said it for him. Kissing the tip of his nose and tugging him into the bathroom for a shower to clean up.

Even with that shower, it wasn't even noon when they arrived in New York. They edged around Manhattan. Little Charles got them lost, but they found themselves when they stopped for directions. 

Their apartment wasn't much to look at. Brown bricks and a stoop that let out onto the street. Little Charles said, "I can unload. You relax outside. You've done all the work so far." 

She blushed for some reason and leaned up against the stoop railing. 

He held the things most precious to her in his arms up a flight of stairs and into a bright little apartment with a wooden floor. He passed by an old black woman, Mrs. Ferguson, with a load of groceries on his way down. He helped her carry them back up. It was just another load. He told her he liked her hat. It was his favourite color blue. He introduced himself as Charles, because he wasn't really Little Charles. It felt strange.

She was chatting with Ivy on the stoop by time he made his next trip up. He smiled at them both, and went out to the van for another load. 

Mrs. Ferguson said to Ivy, "Your man there, he's got a sweet heart. Best you hold on to that one."

He didn't mean to drop the box with a crash when she said, "I mean to." Ivy laughed. "They're just some pots. They can take the dents." 

They unloaded the rest of the van together. They made use of the air mattress. As they curled around each other, they whispered their dreams for the future. Nothing complicated. Just the rest of their lives.

They got to know the people in their building. Mrs. Ferguson was nice. One of the Deacons in her church, Mr. Carter, needed part time help at his grocery store. It was just down the street. Ivy would wake him up with kisses. He'd walk to work almost skipping. Not much pay, but he liked talking with the folks that came in. They laughed with him at his little songs. 

He called his Dad, Charlie, at the upholstery store a couple days after they arrived. His Dad said, "Your Mom's raising quite a fuss."

"I'm sorry," said Little Charles. He wasn't sorry about leaving, or Ivy, but the rest of everything. He was sorry about that.

"Nothing to be sorry about. Your Mom told me everything. Nothing on you." He sounded as calm and kind as he always did.

Little Charles could feel the tears in his throat. "I know I disappointed you. I'm so sorry. I wish you were actually my…"

"Now you stop right there, Little Charles. I am your Dad, and I love you. That's all that matters. Now I don't want details about what you're getting up to. But if you're happy, then I'm happy. Ivy's got a good head on her shoulders, and a good heart. You take care and stop being so hard on yourself."

"Yes, Dad." Little Charles put down the phone and blinked because the day was just that bright.

Later, Ivy came home from work with a small pot of Ivy to hang in the window. He looked at the tiny pot. "What if I kill it?"

She leaned up against him. "Ivy is stronger than it looks." 

He humming a song about ivy wreaths into the curve of her body. They whispered. "I adore you." They spread out the vines to catch the light together, and sat on the tiny love seat to watch some TV, arms wrapped and bodies pressed close as the day turned into night.

**Author's Note:**

> If after reading my fiction here, you would like to read more about me and my writing check out my profile.


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